I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 96: The Burial
Jon's Perspective
The plan—half-baked, questionably legal, and stitched together with more desperation than logic—was officially underway.
Jon left the auto shop a few minutes before Jay, maneuvering through the mild chaos of early afternoon traffic with the kind of nervous precision usually reserved for transporting unstable chemicals or carrying a baby made of glass. On the passenger seat, a small cloth pouch sat zipped tightly shut. Inside it, the necklace—a piece of antique jewelry now unofficially rebranded as "cursed"—rested like a sleeping serpent. Jon didn't trust it. Not even a little. If it had started glowing or chanting in a long-dead language, he wouldn't have been surprised.
He reached the Pritchett house about half an hour before Jay, just as they had coordinated in hushed tones at the mechanic. Slipping into the house with the stealth of someone who had definitely seen too many spy shows, Jon navigated the familiar hallways like a sitcom ninja—quiet, deliberate, and resisting the urge to hum his own theme music. The pouch was stashed out of sight, hidden in a drawer until it was time for its final journey.
When Jay finally walked through the front door, his acting chops came to life in full force. If there were awards for best performance in the category of "Domestic Lies Delivered With Panache," Jay would've had the Emmy locked down. He didn't just lie—he lied with flair, with narrative structure, with the kind of off-the-cuff ambiguity that said I'm guilty but somehow charming about it.
"I lost it," he said, wide-eyed and mournful. "Somewhere at the golf club. Could've been the locker room. Or maybe the 8th hole. Who's to say?"
Gloria reacted instantly. Her hand flew to her chest as though someone had told her the Pope had died. "You what?"
"Gone," Jay repeated, voice heavy with fake regret. "Like smoke in the wind. Except... denser. And shaped like a necklace."
Jon, listening from the hallway, barely contained a groan. The 8th hole? That was the best he could come up with? It sounded like an excuse that a 10 year old would come up with.
But somehow—miraculously, absurdly—Gloria seemed to accept it. Not because it was convincing, but because, Jon guessed, she desperately wanted to believe it. That necklace had creeped her out from the beginning. She crossed herself with dramatic flair and muttered a thank-you to some saint Jon had never heard of, probably the Colombian patron of haunted fashion accessories.
Manny, however, wasn't buying it so easily. The kid was suspicious by nature—part aspiring intellectual, part amateur detective. He tilted his head, skepticism written all over his face.
"Wait," Manny said slowly. "So did it fall off, or did you take it off?"
Jay cracked open a soda, maintaining the casual cool of someone trying very hard not to look like he was sweating. "I don't know, kid. Golf's a dangerous sport. Lotta stress. I wasn't exactly cataloguing every move."
Jon watched from the shadows as Manny narrowed his eyes, clearly gearing up for an interrogation. But Jay kept his story vague enough to elude firm questioning—like a politician sidestepping a scandal. Eventually, Manny let it go, though his silence screamed this isn't over.
Hours passed. The night crept in, and by the time the clock struck 1 a.m., the household was finally quiet. It was the perfect moment—for covert grave-digging.
Jon emerged from his room clad entirely in black: hoodie, pants, even socks. He moved with the kind of silence that can only be honed by years of sneaking snacks after bedtime. Jay, by contrast, arrived moments later sounding like a herd of elephants tap-dancing in combat boots. Every step he took creaked. Every breath wheezed. He was the opposite of stealth. If Jon was a shadow, Jay was a malfunctioning air conditioner with a limp.
They met in the backyard, under the kind of pitch-black sky that made even the stars seem like they didn't want to witness what was about to happen.
"You brought the shovel?" Jay whispered, holding up the world's dimmest flashlight like it might scare away ghosts.
Jon raised the small gardening spade. "Of course. What, you thought I was going to dig a hole for a cursed necklace with my bare hands?"
Jay grunted. "Just checking."
They crept to the far corner of the yard, behind the tree with the slightly menacing silhouette. Jon knelt and began digging, the spade slicing into the soil with a faint crunch. Jay hovered beside him, flashlight beam bobbing like an amateur horror film.
"You know," Jon muttered as he scooped another pile of dirt, "we're technically supposed to bury it under a full moon. That's, like, three days from now."
Jay exhaled through his nose. "You want to sleep next to that thing for three more nights?"
Jon didn't even pause. "Hell no."
"Exactly."
The hole grew deeper. The ground was damp and smelled like grass and secrets. When it seemed deep enough, Jon carefully unwrapped the cloth bundle and, with a quiet sense of finality, dropped it in. The necklace landed with a muted thud, vanishing into the dirt like it had never existed. Like it hadn't disrupted their lives in increasingly absurd ways.
Jay handed him the flashlight while he scooped the dirt back over the necklace. With each shovelful, Jon felt a small measure of relief. Maybe this would actually work. Maybe they'd buried the curse with it.
Jay let out a deep sigh when it was done. "Well. That's that."
They stood there for a beat, then gave each other a quick, wordless hug. The kind of hug that wasn't emotional, exactly, but said we just went through some weird stuff together and neither of us wants to talk about it. A masculine embrace of survival and shared absurdity.
Then Jay took a step back. And his foot landed, with cruel precision, on the sprinkler control valve.
Click.
Jon froze. "Wait. Was that—?"
PSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHT.
Water exploded from every sprinkler head in the yard. It was as if the ground itself had declared war. Cold jets of water blasted into them from all angles, turning their burial site into a scene from a slapstick disaster movie.
"Dammit!" Jay bellowed, stumbling backward.
Jon was soaked within seconds. "You had one job!"
Jay cursed, slipped, tried to recover, slipped again, and finally found the shut-off switch, hitting it like he was defusing a bomb. The sprinklers sputtered to a stop, but the damage was done. They stood in mud, dripping and defeated, their clothes plastered to their skin, dignity in tatters.
They didn't speak as they trudged back inside, leaving a soggy trail of regret behind them. Towels were hastily grabbed from the hallway closet, and they dried off in silence—two battle-weary soldiers of the suburban supernatural.
"How did Gloria and Manny not wake up?" Jon finally asked, wringing water from his sleeve.
Jay managed a laugh. "Gloria took sleeping pills. Said she needed to rest her soul after all that cursed necklace business."
"And Manny?"
Jay shrugged. "Kid was raised by Gloria. He could sleep through a fire drill conducted by a mariachi band."
Jon snorted, unable to help himself.
Jay gave him a solemn nod. "We are never speaking of this again."
"Deal," Jon replied. "Unless the gardenias start withering mysteriously."
Jay's glare could've dried the towel in Jon's hand.
And with that, they each went to bed—soaked, filthy, but finally free. Or at least free until the next cursed family heirloom decided to make an appearance.